Nothing To Live For
by machi-tan
Summary: John H. Watson, ex-army doctor, loyal biographer to Sherlock Holmes. Dr. John Watson injured and useless soldier, currently left behind on the Great Sherlock Holmes' extraordinary cases. John Watson had nothing to live for...so why was he still here?


John H. Watson, ex-army doctor, loyal biographer to Sherlock Holmes. Dr. John Watson injured and useless soldier, currently left behind on the Great Sherlock Holmes' extraordinary cases. John Watson had nothing to live for...so why was he still here?

Watson wasn't sure how or when these morbid thoughts began to circulate in his mind he just let them be. He no longer had any patients, thanks to him quitting his job to assist Sherlock, but that hasn't worked out so well either. Holmes had been taking many cases and never including Watson any more. Watson didn't mind at first, more time to rest, and he figured that when Holmes came in injured after a case he would always be needed. That was the case for a while until Holmes took it upon himself to learn how to stitch up his own wounds and tend to himself. Watson was happy that Holmes had learned a new trade but when he started to need him less and less he felt unnecessary, like an object that was wasting away, just taking up space. Watson tried on many occasions to try and convince himself other wise but now...now he was running out of excuses.

He needed a reason to live. At first it was to be there for his family; be the good proper second son. Then his parents died. He went to war; and his mission was to serve his country as a doctor to tend to the wounded and ill, until he became one of them. He had gone for a while without a purpose; he had almost done the same deed he was contemplating. Thank God Almighty, for Sherlock Holmes. He became his new, thought to be, lifetime friend. Holmes relied on him, and him only, everyone else was an ignorant fool, him included at times, but Holmes still wanted and needed him around. They were friends, but Holmes had out grown him, much like a boy out grows his childish toys. Holmes didn't need him anymore. John was just wasting space. Holmes could support himself without John there, Mrs. Hudson would keep an eye on him and Holmes always did enjoy his time alone and isolation.

John let a tear slip down his cheek as he took out his pocket watch that had once been his brother's, and glanced at the time. It was late at night, when all of London should be sleeping, save Holmes who was out on a case without John, again. John decided, it was his time to go, he wasn't needed anymore. With a shaky sigh John stood from his bed and set aside his best clothing. He sat at his desk and wrote out a note apologizing to Mrs. Hudson for the mess he was about to make, and to Holmes for what he was about to do. He also thanked them for what they had done and he told Holmes not to blame himself or do anything rash. Watson explained that he would like to be buried in the clothes he had laid out. He wrote a final thank you to his dear friend and bid him farewell, hoping they would meet again in God's kingdom (even though he knew Holmes did not believe in Jesus Christ's sacrifice). The Doctor walked to the safe he had secured in his room and opened it taking out his will (which held the safe's combination, as well) and placed the note on the will and both on top of the outfit he picked out.

Watson walked over to his bedside and picked up his revolver. He drew a shaky breath as he loaded the barrel with a single bullet, that's all he would need. His hand trembling and his mind yelling in protest he raised the gun and set it to his temple, instantly silencing the protesting. As he was about to pull the trigger he heard the door slam open then closed and a familiar voice filled the flat. Holmes was back, and he was calling to Watson. The Doctor froze before running and locking the door. Holmes had now sprinted up the seventeen steps taking them two at a time, from what Watson heard, and tried to open his flat mate's door. Watson licked his lips as he heard Holmes pounding on the wood demanding he be let in. As the man continued to clobber the door Watson ran over and placed his body in front, to act as a barricade.

"Watson! Watson, open this door immediately!"

Said man drew in shaky breaths and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Holmes," He choked out.

There was a loud pound then a soft tap against the door. Holmes was now whispering from the other side. "Watson, please don't. I saw your figure from your window and I saw what you where planning..." he cut off and took in a breath. Watson meanwhile hung on his words. "You can't do this."

It was a plea.

"Don't leave me." Watson didn't respond. He just re-aimed his revolver and fired.

A scream tore from Holmes' throat as he called out for his friend. No response came and he found himself sinking to the ground, eyes wide and unfocused.

He felt his heart slam back into his chest when he heard the locks click and the door open. Towering over his slumped form was John Watson; in his hand was an empty revolver. Watson dropped the weapon and the detective stared at it for a moment before his eyes trailed up to meet his companion's. The red rimmed eyes screamed apologies and Holmes gathered himself and stood up. "Do not feel bad, old friend. I am the one who should be sorry." Watson shook his head and opened his mouth to speak. "No," Holmes cut him off. "Let me get some tea. I will prepare it you sit and we will discuss this matter when I return." Watson nodded and followed Holmes into his flat. The Doctor took a seat and kept his head bowed, but right before Holmes left to make the tea he turned to his companion and said. "I'm glad you didn't go through with it." Watson looked up and met his eyes in surprise. "'I am nothing without my Boswell'." There was a genuine smile on the man's face and Watson nodded. He was glad too; he was nothing with out Holmes.


End file.
